Lazarus Needs a Robe of Scarlet Thread
by HerRosesNeverFall
Summary: It's been three weeks since Dean was resurrected. He thought having nightmares of Hell was the worst thing that could befall him, but now he's plagued with strange visions, agonizing wounds, and the sickly-sweet smell of roses. Stigmata, they are said to be marks of sainthood, but Dean is not a saint. A season four Divine!Dean AU. Edits made.


_**April, 30 A.D.**_

_**Jerusalem, Judea.  
**_

It was a cooler night than usual, at least compared to the blistering, arid heat he had come to recognize as normal. A chill wafted its way through the twisted olive trees, wrapping around him as he moved between them in silent vigilance. Despite its presence, the chill had no effect on him, but he assumed his vessel, if he could feel anything, would no doubt be shivering._  
_  
'_Gethsemane', _the place was called, a garden on the foot of the Mount of Olives, just outside the city gates. Castiel had been pacing around the outskirts of it for hours now, his sword tucked safely inside the sleeve of his vessel's rough wool tunic. Listening. Watching. Keeping guard.

The night was proving to be a perilous one; already he had slain three demons in the guise of shepherd boys.

Castiel could hear the sound of muddled chatter echoing from deep within the garden, the sound of twelve voices with thick Galilean accents, whispering and bickering with one another. Voices he knew well, but rarely, if ever, shared a word with; a former fisherman deciding to sharpen his knife, just in case, a carpenter's second eldest son worrying over the wellbeing of his elder brother. One voice, different from the others, less rustic with hints of a Judean accent, was notably absent from the chatter.

Castiel could also hear _Him_. The one he was keeping vigil over and comforting as best he could. The one he was protecting. The Son.

The sound of His rapidly beating heart and trembling breaths. The sound of pleading, desperate words forming half spoken prayers of sorrow, anger, and most of all, fear. Castiel regretted telling Him what was coming, least of all doing it on a night that _should_ have been filled with celebration, the first night of Passover, but he had no choice.

Off in the distance he could see the glow of torches and the shadowy figures of a squad of temple guards slowly making their way up from the city gates. It wasn't long before a wind came, blowing the leaves of the olive trees with a strong gust. It was quickly followed by the sound of sandaled feet making contact with gravel and dirt. Castiel turned to find one of his elder- and higher-ranking brothers standing behind him, the bright moonlight casting a shadow of wings under his vessel. A vessel he recognized all too well.

"Brother…" Castiel paused. His gaze drifted down to the leather coin purse, weighted heavy with silver pieces, clutched tightly in one of his brother's hands. "You're wearing one of His Apostles." His eyes also noted the dagger, its blade forged from iron and etched with Hebraic symbols, tucked into his cloak.

His brother's voice was detached and hard as he circled him. "We needed him and he was willing. He understands what's at stake, far better than most. Time is running out. Only two Seals are left. Before the festival ends, this _must_ come to pass."

Castiel shook his head; his words were tinged with frustrated doubt and anger. "What of His mission? He's not finished with it yet."

"What of it? The Brother and The Apostles will finish it. _This _is His mission now. He's _chosen_ this. _Willingly_," the angel cocked an eyebrow as a smirk spread across his face, "The salvation of the world is more important than the life of one man. Even a man our Father has chosen as His Son. Have you forgotten that?"

"No, I haven't." Carefully, Castiel lowered his sword down from his sleeve. Before he could strike, his brother had knocked it out of his hand and slammed him against one of the olive trees as he produced his own angel sword, pushing it just against the flesh of Castiel's neck.

"You know what will become of you if you disobey," he hissed, his eyes narrowing sharply. "You're a soldier and _good_ one, one of the best in the garrison. Don't ruin it because of your sympathies."

An Enochian chant fell rapidly from the angel's lips. Castiel's vessel began to glow with a bright white light and he could feel himself being pulled, wrenched out of the body. He fought against it, desperately, as best he could, but to no avail. The next thing he knew, he was floating, incorporeal and invisible, next to his unconscious vessel.

A slight distance away, the elder angel had joined the squad of guards. He quickly gave them instructions before they marched themselves deeper into the garden.

Soon Castiel heard The Son's voice speaking pained but expected words of betrayal, followed by the sounds of chaos: shouts and screams, panicked running, and fighting. The sound of once faithful followers fleeing for their own salvation. The sound of a knife cutting off a guard's ear. The sound of a younger brother, having barely wrestled himself free from a pair of guards, running back towards the city, resisting angry tears.

The night air became colder.

* * *

_**October, 2008**_

_**Bethlehem, Connecticut.**_

It had been a pretty atypical hunt, if those things could be atypical. A quiet New England town that had more foliage covered maple trees than it had people. The vengeful ghost of a young woman wrongfully hanged for witchcraft had been killing the descendants of all those connected to her trial as a reaction to the town's recent posthumous pardoning of her. Dean had joked more than once that the girl had a catty bitch streak while Sam expressed sympathy for her.

Despite a couple of close calls, it ended as little more than a nighttime salt and burn affair in an old Puritan cemetery. The biggest hurdle for the brothers, since the grave was unmarked, was finding the location of the bones. But, with the help of Sam's Stanford education and Dean's observational skills, they managed to find them easily enough.

It was a welcomed change from what was becoming the norm. No trench coat sporting angels, no threat of broken Seals and the very real possibility of Lucifer being loosed from his Cage, no impending Apocalypse. Just a centuries-old dead girl throwing a fit. It was familiar, comparatively easy and very nostalgic.

Dean was thankful for that. _Really_ thankful.

He was even more thankful for the dive bar within walking distance of the motel with its half priced apple pie shots, curvy brunette bartender, and local barflies. They assumed a Midwestern drawl meant an honest game of pool and Dean took full advantage of it. Scoring a phone number, four hundred bucks and one hell of a good buzz, he staggered his way back into the motel room. A Thursday night well spent.

"Sammy. Ya got no idea what your buzzkill ass missed," Dean chuckled as he shut the door behind him. He smirked drunkenly at his big-little brother who was all but comatose in the bed that was his for the third night in a row. "The bartender: bangin' hot. Literally. And they had these… apple pie shots. Apple pie in booze form, dude. You should've come with me instead of turnin' in early like a chump."

Dean only got so far as tossing his leather jacket and the room key onto the table before he made an all too habitual march over to the kitchenette. He grabbed an already half-drunk bottle of whiskey before he moved over to his bed, sitting himself on the end of it as he took a swig from the bottle. Already, his buzz had started to wane and with it began, without fail, the howling of hell hounds and the screaming.

The smirk Dean carried with him into the room faded sharply as the liquid burned its way down his throat. Slowly the burn began to suppress the weeping and gnashing of teeth that he had brought up out of the grave with him, tucking it back into a corner of his mind, though never doing so completely. Soon, Dean was alone. Alone with the burn and the ring of fire it fought to keep back.

Except Dean _wasn't_ alone.

As Dean sat there with nothing but the numbing of his mind to distract him, he began to get the feeling that something was in the room - something besides his dead-to-the-world-brother. A presence was in the room with him, a presence he hadn't felt before. Watching him. Not a ghost, not a demon and not an angel, as far as he could tell. This was something different and that _alone_ was enough to put him on edge.

The bathroom light started to flicker. Instinctively, Dean put the bottle down on the floor and grabbed the salt-round loaded shotgun he kept next to his bed as he made his way into the bathroom, the gun pointed and ready to shoot whatever was in there as he walked over the threshold.

Nothing. No cold spots, no scent of sulfur or strange shadows. Just his and Sammy's electric shaver, tooth brushes, first aid kit, a pile of dirty bath towels, and another bottle of whiskey. Without a second's hesitation, Dean turned in the direction of Sam's bed, expecting to find whatever he _knew_ was in the room to be hovering over his brother.

Nothing was there either.

"Maybe you should lay off the Jameson," Dean mumbled to himself with a scoff as he did a second scan of the bathroom, flicking the light on and off a couple of times in the process. "Shit's makin' ya paranoid." He shrugged as he dropped the shotgun back to its former resting place and sat back down on the bed, rubbing his eyes as he took his boots off.

Then came the silence. Complete silence.

All the sounds of the motel room, the buzzing of the bathroom light, Sam's snoring, everything ceased except for the sound of Dean's own breathing. A light filled the room and washed over him, sobering and enveloping him like water as it filled his ears with the sound of flapping wings and his body with comforting warmth.

Dean felt calm. At_ peace_, even.

All too quickly, the calm and peace were replaced by a sensation of anxiety and fear, and the comforting warmth became blistering, arid heat that somehow felt cold. Thoughts echoed in a voice that wasn't Dean's, in a language he didn't recognize, but somehow, he understood. Despite all the pain it carried, the voice wasn't malicious or demonic- it was benevolent and very human. It almost felt as though it were Dean's own.

The thoughts were quickly followed by the sound of something cracking as it cut through the air behind him. Then there was pain. Leather thongs and pieces of metal tore through the skin of his back. They paused only briefly before they struck him again and again, ripping deeper through the layers of flesh and muscle.

The voice screamed agonizing thoughts of doubt and abandonment before it, the strikes, and the pain they brought with them finally ceased, filling Dean's ears with the sound of his own screams. Dean found himself curled up in the fetal position, trembling, his back engulfed by pain that was vicious and all-encompassing.

Pulsing. _Throbbing_. Pain.

"Dean! What the hell happened?" Sam was crouched on the floor next to him, a look of horror on his tired face. He had been jolted awake by the sound of Dean screaming. He'd stumbled his way out of bed to find Dean lying on the floor, the back of his flannel shirt intact, but stained with blood.

"Somethin'… whipped me…"

"_What_ whipped you?"

"I don't fuckin' know…" Dean's voice shook with uncertainty as he tried to lift himself up off the floor to no avail.

Sam grabbed Dean and pulled him up off the floor, walking him as quickly as the two of them could manage into the bathroom. He sat Dean on the toilet; the movement causing a loud groan to escape from his mouth while Sam got him a glass of water which he promptly chugged down. Dean managed with Sam's help to get his shirts off, wincing sharply as the blood drenched fabric was pulled from the skin.

"How bad is it Sammy?" Dean rasped with pained breaths, his question equal parts boggled by fear and characteristically nonchalant.

Sam was silent. His eyes focused hard on the scarlet gashes that marked the whole of his brother's back. They were jagged and deep in chaotic clusters of three. They were _scourge_ wounds.

"Sam!" Dean barked, panic washing over his face.

"Bad." Sam cleared his throat, "You're gonna need stitches. _A lot_ of them. " He grabbed the first aid kit and the bottle of whiskey from the bathroom counter. His eyes glanced briefly at the purple tinted scar in the shape of a handprint on Dean's left shoulder as he handed Dean the bottle of whiskey and started to thread the needle.

"Awesome," Dean sighed as he took a sip from the bottle, gritting his teeth with a guttural groan as Sam began to suture him up. Dean had a high endurance to meatball surgery and Sam had a knack for it - to the point of it being a skill - but the task nevertheless moved slowly. A sluggish process of piercing needle, tugging thread, burning whiskey. Rinse and repeat. Twice, Sam had to stop to steady Dean so he didn't fall over and, even with all the practice he had, it didn't take long for his hand to begin to ache. Sam finally wrapping layers of gauze bandage around Dean's torso was a welcome relief to the both of them.

"You're positive you don't have any idea what did this?" Sam asked with concern, eyebrow raised, as he finished wrapping the last bit of gauze. "Ghost? Witch? Daeva? _Anything_?"

"No," Dean shook his head. "Whatever it was, it was somethin' me or you or Dad haven't ever come across. It was _different_."

Sam didn't say anything. He put the first aid kit and bottle of whiskey back on the counter before he handed Dean a second glass of water. He paused for a long moment as he watched Dean carefully, "Maybe it was your mind."

Dean paused. "What?"

"Your memories of Hell. Some psychosomatic thing."

"No." Dean's eyes narrowed sharply as he lowered the glass from his mouth.

"Well, that's the _only_ thing I can think of, Dean. I mean they tortured you in The Pit, right? What if your memories are starting to manifest themselves physically? "

"This ain't Hell, okay? Trust me." Dean lifted himself slowly up off the toilet, putting the glass on the counter with an angry clank. "Just drop it Sam, alright? Right now, I just wanna go to sleep."

Sam shot him a look of frustration as he flung Dean's arm over his shoulders and started the slow and limping walk out of the bathroom and over to Dean's bed. He lowered Dean down slowly, but still not delicately enough where Sam didn't drop him, causing a sharp hiss to escape from Dean's mouth as he positioned himself on his side.

"You gonna be okay?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. It just hurts like a fuckin' bitch." Dean winced as he closed his eyes, waving Sam off weakly. As Sam walked away, Dean's body curled into itself. It ached horribly, not just with the physical pain of the wounds, but with confusion, uncertainty, and something much, much more profound. It ached with_ sorrow_. Terrible sorrow that was piercing and tight, like barbed wire had wrapped around his heart.

Sam made his way back into the bathroom to grab some spare bandages, knowing full well Dean would need them in the morning. His eyes shifted over to the nearly empty glass of water Dean had left on the counter. The glass of water that wasn't water anymore. It was translucent and deep red in color. Reluctantly, Sam picked up the glass and smelled it. It was bitter with the stench of fermented grapes. It was _wine_.

Sam turned his eyes back to Dean, now curled up under his sheets, before he dumped it quickly down the drain and washed the glass out. He grabbed the bandages, laying them down on Dean's side of the nightstand. He stared at his brother for a moment before he crawled back into his own bed without a single word.

There was a smell that had begun to waft throughout the room. Not the smell of blood or whiskey, but of roses.

Dean could smell it.

So could Sam.


End file.
